Magical
by meandmyinsanity
Summary: For Lizzie Bennet, Fresher's Week is everything it's supposed to be and yet - not. With tensions raging high between her new flatmates - Wickham, the magical boy and Darcy, the stuck-up prat - getting those two idiots to admit their feelings might just require some kind of miracle - or a Shakespeare loving Emma Woodhouse. Modern University AU. LizziexDarcyxWickham. TRIAD.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: First of all, Happy Holidays! Second, this is the first part of a three part story. It's all prewritten and I'll update it probably every two to three days until New Years? Idk, don't look at me for answers.**

 **Third, this is a triad story/University/flatmates/best friend AU that focuses on Lizzie/Darcy/Wickham with a healthy side dash of Knightley/Emma. If that's not your cup of tea then don't read it. I had a lot of fun writing this and all locations exist in reality - including the kitchen fan.**

 **Soundtrack: Dance Floor Anthem - Good Charlotte, Teenage Dirtbag - Wheatus, Wonderwall - Oasis**

* * *

 **Magical: Part 1  
**

Fresher's Week is everything it's supposed to be and yet – not.

There are five other people in her flat at Longbourn-House and after meeting Jane - the ice queen, Emma – the professed matchmaker, a bouncing thing named Collins that studies theology and the unresponsive door to W.F. Darcy's room, Lizzie Bennet is more than ready for the drinking part of the meet and greet thing to begin.

She stumbles into the kitchen and stops more or less dead in her tracks when she sees a half-naked specimen of the male variety standing in the shared kitchen space in low riding pyjama pants, abs and dark curling tattoos all on display while chucking down a container of pineapple juice without a care in the world.

She purses her lips. "Hello," she says, her eyes lingering on the tattoo on the left side of his ribcage that looks suspiciously like a crest – there's a bird, a snake and … a lion? "Did you come straight out of Hogwarts or are those your spirit animals?"

The guy in question simply lowers the juice carton, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and eyes her for a split second before cracking a smile, all sharp, gleaming teeth –

"Not like it'd be mutually exclusive, love," he grins, pushing the dirty blond locks out of his face. He drags out the words with a Manchester accent that has Lizzie grin and she drops her backpack, takes out a small round bottle of Absolut Vodka and reaches for the pineapple juice.

"Would?" she asks, handing him the Vodka in exchange. "Care to enlighten me on the dependencies?"

"On whether or not you believe in the magic, darling."

* * *

The magic does indeed spark and three shots into the evening she has reconciled herself to her flatmates by bonding with Jane over their mutual distaste of strapless tops of all things, killing two birds with one stone when she sets Emma up with the number of Mrs Bennet's online dating business and giving Collins a crash course in booze and other intoxicants.

Wickham though –

The guy with the tattoos and the magic might just be the best thing about living in a cramped space with a kitchen fan that's roaring every time one moves a single finger and they've agreed to blood brotherhood, facebook friends and emergency contacts before said third shot has burned down their throats.

But then of course something has to ruin the pleasant buzz she's feeling.

"What _the fuck_ are you doing here?"

There's another guy in their kitchen – tall and perfectly groomed in a button down shirt and slacks and –

He's glaring at Wickham with unrivalled intensity.

"Oh my god, are you wearing _dress shoes_?" Lizzie's ability to not blurt out the first thing that comes to mind has left her for a temporary holiday with only a poor, badly paid substitute called honesty that has problems with being socially appropriate.

The newcomer shoots her an irritated glare and sneers when he sees her perched on her stool, cradling a glass with a bright orange liquid – vodka and vitamin tablets and he – he's pretty.

Like, prep-school, my-watch-costs-more-than-your-house, this-is-one-hundred-percent-cashmere, you imbecile, don't touch it – oh you shop at _Topshop_? – kind of pretty. You know, the irritating kind.

"Are you drinking _tube cleaner_?" he mocks, imitating her question.

"What," she simpers, pursing her lips. "Did I steal your drink?"

"Hopefully not." He's sneering again and regarding her as if she were vermin under his, admittedly perfectly polished shoes. "I was simply congratulating you on cauterising your brain cells so very effectively. Quite impressive, really."

"Thank you." She turns to Wickham who's been quietly following the exchange, his eyes varying between amusement and annoyance. "Does the janitor here also have a name or can I just call him Jimmy?"

That gets her a startled laugh from the magical boy and he slings an arm around her, smirking at the intruder.

"I'll have you know," pretty boy starts. "My name is William Frederick-"

"Oh god," Lizzie mumbles into Wickham's arm. "I thought this was the cheapest accommodation. What is he _doing_ here?"

"Keeping tabs on me." She can hear him roll his eyes. "He thinks I'm the bad guy."

"Well, he doesn't seem to be a very bright sort," Lizzie says conversationally, hiccoughing a bit. "Doesn't believe in the magic now, does he?"

"-Darcy. My name is _Darcy_."

"Yes, and the centre for poncy wankers is right down Rude Jerk Road at the corner to Is-that-a-fake-nose-or-did-you-smash-it-against-a-concrete-wall Lane. You can't possibly miss it, Jimmy." She waves him a cheeky goodbye and pretty boy turns bright red.

"My name is _not_ -"

"I think she knows that," Jane chimes in helpfully. She's still all calm collectedness despite taking five shots in less than ten minutes.

Jimmy just glares at her while Lizzie and magical boy snigger. "What kind of stupid, unoriginal, utterly plebeian name is _Jimmy_ anyway -"

"It's not stupid," Lizzie pouts. "It's an alliteration."

"Well, Miss English Lit could you please disentangle yourself from lover boy over there, because frankly-"

"Oh, ex-boyfriend then?" she asks, turning to Wickham who rolls his eyes and pulls her closer.

"Nah, more like _ex-best friend_ who's sworn he'd _kill_ me next time he saw me." Magical Boy takes her left arm and licks a long stripe from elbow to wrist before pouring salt on it, his eyes never leaving Darcy's who is still standing there in the doorway, glowering at the slightly drunk group around the kitchen table. "He's a bit obsessive, you see? Got tunnel vision and all that."

"I see," Lizzie mock whispers. "He's a stalker."

"And you're _drunk_ ," Darcy snarls the word as if it's meant to be an insult and Lizzie laughs it right off, face pressed into Wickham's neck. "And what are you doing here anyway? I bloody well changed schools last minute and ended up in this utter _hellhole_ because I got tipped off that you'd be attending Cambridge and now we're _flatmates_?"

"Might have forged that particular bit of gossip." He sounds quite nonchalant about it, but she sees the smugness radiating off him in waves.

Darcy narrows his eyes, clenches his fists. "You did this _on purpose_?"

It pretty much goes downhill from there.

* * *

Having William Darcy as a flatmate is as close to the fifth circle of hell as Lizzie is ever likely to get.

She can arrange herself to Jane's strange cooking habits, Emma's matchmaking and Collins' squealing with little to no difficulty and considering there is a party almost every other night to celebrate the first two weeks of their freshmen year it should be brilliant.

It's not.

In fact, if she's not busy curing a hangover, meeting her new classmates and professors and doing all the socially approved and unapproved things one is supposed to do at University, she's wading through this swamp-like tension every time she's sneaking into the kitchen past both Wickham's and Darcy's doors and if she's not careful enough, one move at the wrong time can set of another bout of angry shouts and sullen glares and the tension is _thick_ and it's _itching_.

And when it explodes it burns.

* * *

"You're a good friend", she slurs into Wickham's arms while he's practically dragging her down the road away from the nightclub where they've celebrated "Back To School's Night" and back to Longbourn House. "A good… a _great_ friend even."

"Some people might object to that assessment."

"Some people are stupid idiots," Lizzie grumbles, causing Wickham to chuckle.

It's two thirty in the morning and the road is dark, long-winded and framed by rather imposing looking trees and while she babbles about her gratitude for him walking with her because otherwise she might just _see_ some things between the branches that for her own peace of mind she has absolutely no desire to _see_ –

"It's like looking at the clouds," she informs him, wildly pointing at some poor tree that has the misfortune of meeting her index finger. "The longer you stare at it, the more you see and in the case of branches it's just not teddy bears and turtles and dragons like with clouds-"

"Christ, what disturbing things do you see in _clouds_?"

She considers it and in the process stops dead in her tracks causing Wickham to almost stumble over her feet. "I once saw a puppy," she informs him quite seriously.

"And that was traumatic?"

"It was a puppy." She looks at him out of dark, almond-shaped eyes like he's the one who completely lost the plot while simultaneously swaying a bit intoxicated.

He huffs out a laugh and pulls her closer. "Come on," he says. "Let's get you home before the others send out a search party and you can – you know – just _not_ look at the trees."

"But they keep staring at me!"

"Bit paranoid, too, hmm?"

"Paranoid? I'm pretty sure there's a pair of eyes over there watching us and – bloody hell, it's _moving_!"

What Lizzie did think to be a tree – albeit a scarily humanoid one – turns out to be part of the search party Wickham warned her about – if an angry looking William Darcy can be considered a search party that is.

He glares at her still pointing index finger which is hovering somewhere under his nose and Lizzie's admittedly rather jumbled mind keeps wondering if there's dirt on her hand or if she's in dire need of a manicure.

She pokes his cheek with said offending finger and watches in delight as he jumps back in horror, clutching the side of his face.

"Are you absolutely _mental_?"

"Nope," she squeals, jumping a bit. "I just had to check if you were real."

"By _poking_ me?"

"Well, how do you check whether or not someone's a ghost?" Lizzie gazes at him curiously. "Because for me it's either tackling or poking them and I thought, you know, with that stick up your arse you wouldn't appreciate me tackling you – might result in some serious internal injuries and bleeding's never fun so…"

Darcy stares at her completely flabbergasted while Wickham hides a grin in her hair. "What are you _on_ about, you daft bint? What makes you think I'm a ghost?"

"Well, you did suddenly appear out of the woodwork like some sort of sprite, Jimmy," Wickham offers helpfully which, judging from Darcy's expression, isn't a much desired opinion.

"Shut up, you bastard," he says venomously to which Lizzie opens her mouth in protest. "And don't you start," Darcy warns her. "I did come here to save you, not to be talked utterly mad by that nonsensical garbage that comes out of your mouth."

"I don't need to be _saved_ ," is all she can come up with while staring at him a bit gobsmacked.

"Pack it in, Darcy," Wickham interjects, looking equally as threatening all of a sudden. "Only because you operate on the basis of pure logic and precision and, mind you, quite limited at that, doesn't mean all of us are incapable of understanding a sodding _metaphor_."

"It's not a metaphor if the barmy one over there just talks in bloody circles for Christ's sake!"

"I think calling you a stuck-up prat with a phallus shaped object lodged in your rectum is pretty straightforward. My Darcy," Wickham mocks. "I didn't know you were the kinky sort."

"I'm not… I…" Pretty boy is flustered, blushing bright red. "At least I'm not the lying, untrustworthy sort who just can't keep it in his trousers when asked to!"

"Gina wasn't exactly _innocent_ in all of this, you know!" Now it's Wickham's turn to flush with anger. "She came onto me and only because you got this picture of her being all nice and innocent and _virginal_ doesn't mean-"

"Don't you dare speak of her, you disgusting son of a-" That's where he falters and Wickham's sneer is back in place as he stares down the other boy.

"Can't say anything about her, can you? At least you have the decency to not insult the woman who practically _raised you_ even though you have absolutely no qualms whatsoever about dragging my name through the mud despite us growing up like _brothers_!"

"No," comes the drowsy mumble from Lizzie who has closed her eyes and leaned her head against Wickham's shoulder the moment the yelling started. "Not brothers, stupid."

The magical boy sighs and shakes his head at Darcy. "You're babbling, Lizzie darling."

"Like I said." Darcy's picked up his arrogance from somewhere off the street again and she wants to punch him. "She's completely round the bent."

She swats a hand in his general direction, somehow managing to hit Wickham's nose in the process who quietly hisses in pain. "'m not daft," she mutters. "'s just that you're acting more like ex-boyfriends than brothers." She makes a sniffling sound, practically leaning on Wickham at this point while half on the way to Morpheus's lands. "So, you know… Kiss and make up."

That's the last she says and they're standing there in the dark, in the middle of the deserted road for a few quiet seconds, both of them watching an evenly breathing Lizzie who's now fast asleep.

"Take her legs, will you?" Wickham sighs and motions for the other boy to help him carry her.

"Don't tell me what to do, bastard." But Darcy does pick up her legs with Lizzie grumbling slightly, a frown on her face.

"Oh shut up, Jimmy."

* * *

The yelling stops after that night and is replaced by a terse silence, loaded glances and an even denser swamp-like feeling. Wickham is all clipped words and silences when the subject of why-does-Darcy-hate-your-guts comes up and she's quite glad the man himself hasn't bitten her throat out yet so it's not like she's going to confront him.

Nope.

So when she wakes up one party-free night to the sound of pots and plates clattering and someone swearing colourfully she's quite sure the apocalypse is upon them. Regardless, she climbs out of bed out of a morbid sense of curiosity and stops dead in her tracks when she finds William Darcy in their kitchen who's apparently having a rather heated discussion with the kettle of all things.

"Stupid, _blasted thing_ – why can't you just shut up and function for Christ's sake-"

"I don't think even you can insult electronics into submission, Jimmy."

He whirls around, wide-eyed and the sloshed water that's apparently not as cold as he made it out to be spills over his hands and he swears – profusely.

"Just what I bloody needed," he hisses. "The University's mental case at three in the morning when all I want is a stupid cup of tea after spending the last twelve hours in the library" Darcy waves a hand in her direction. "Shoo, shoo go back to where you came from, witch."

"I'm not an owl," she states dryly. "And – Good grief, give me the kettle or you'll have us both in the hospital with third-degree burns."

"I did not call you an owl," he protests stubbornly while watching her wipe away the excess water from outside the kettle and turn it on.

"You shooed me. That's what you do with birds." Lizzie searches for a pair of clean cups and her favourite tea mix which she holds out for his inspection. He sniffs, scrunches up his nose but nods his acquiescence.

"Oddly specific choice of bird though," he comments, earning himself a glare and a "Bite me, pretty boy" from Lizzie. The kettle is boiling fast due to the already partly heated water and she pulls out a bag of baked goods from somewhere in her cupboard.

"Cookie?"

He inspects that one, too. "Is it edible?" he asks, looking at it as if it might turn around and bite him instead – Lizzie wouldn't blame it.

"No," she deadpans, rolling her eyes. "It's poisoned since I tend to spend all my spare time injecting snake venom into my own candy in an effort to increase my tolerance."

"Wouldn't put it past you," he mutters but takes the cookie. "Witch."

"Yeah, could you clear up that delusion for me, too?" She grabs the cups and some milk and sits down at the table. They've found a way to silence the fan by putting a bit of paper over the sensor so they can enjoy their tea without it roaring all the time.

"You look like one," he mumbles into his cup, closing his eyes for a second and Lizzie takes the opportunity to study him a bit more closely.

He looks tired, but the permanent frown she's come to associate with him has relaxed into something softer and she realises with a jolt that he really is just as young as the rest of them. His shirt is partly undone, sleeves shoved up his arms until it bunches over his elbows and the bared skin looks warm and golden.

She's not sure but she sees what looks like lines of a tattoo peeking out from under the opened collar and she opens her mouth to mention it but –

"All that hair," he makes a vague gesture around his head. "Bit ridiculous – bloody witch."

" _Excuse me_?" She's more than a bit offended now. "My hair does _not_ look ridiculous."

"Does too." His jaw is jutting forward defiantly and she can barely contain her surprised laughter because he looks just like a sullen toddler.

"Spoiled brat."

"Am _not_."

"Terribly so, I'm afraid."

Darcy cracks open one eye. Icy blue and bloodshot. "You're being nice," he said.

"Staggering, I know," she nodded and pushed the bag with the biscuits closer to him. He looked faintly starved. "I have a weird thing for underdogs."

"I'm no-"

"Do you want me to cease being nice?" She cocks an eyebrow. "Or bring up the moment not five minutes ago where you tried having a dispute with a kettle? No? Then shut up and eat your cookie."

He huffs and does take a bite but can't seem to comply with the first part of the order. "Where's your boyfriend?"

"Sleeping I presume." She presses the warm cup against her cheek. It's gotten chilly outside and the cold seeps through the thin walls and into their rooms since the heating can't be turned on until mid-October. "I wouldn't know since he's not my boyfriend and I don't tend to barge into other people's rooms late at night."

"You two are awfully cosy though," Darcy mumbles around the cookie, sending crumbs flying around. The corners of her mouth twitch in silent amusement when she watches him flush in embarrassment and wipe his mouth.

"I'm aware that human affection is an unknown concept for you, Jimmy, but try not to be so blatantly obvious about it."

"I'm not obvious!"

Lizzie eyes him over the rim of her tea cup – warm, dark eyes and a mess of hair piled on top of her head. "Do you want me to reply to that or will looking it up in the dictionary under the tenth letter help you more?"

Darcy just scowls and resumes eating his cookie.

* * *

They do a lot of these midnight talks over the next weeks and it becomes a sort of ritual for them. Over the day they're both incredibly busy – he with his economics classes and his parallel part-time work for his father's company and she with her nursing classes and the typical University life, but strangely they tend to meet for late night tea regularly without ever agreeing to a date or time previously. It's their own private bubble, there in the weirdly yellow-beige painted kitchen with the plastic chairs and while she still calls him Jimmy from time to time, he calls her a lunatic with recurrent frequency bordering on fondness.

The magical boy is still her best mate in all the world and their adventures range from nightly walks, and beer pong championships to movie marathons, nude drawings and clubbing and they have a habit of falling asleep next to each other in one or the other's bed after a drunken night out – Lizzie has never slept as well as with the steady drum of someone else's heartbeat under her fingertips.

* * *

"Are they… Are they actually fighting over who gets to pay for the drinks?" Lizzie's slurred voice is stunned by the absolute bewilderment she feels while she and Emma watch Darcy and Wickham do the dangerous hissing thing paired with numerous shoulder shoves - it looks like something out of the wildlife program on National Geographic.

They're at a club with some kind of underwater theme and there's foam, a lot of sequins and drinks filled with coconut milk and blue vodka. Darcy has for whatever reason elected to tag along this evening and magical boy's mood has been in the cellar ever since then.

"I think it's… there's something about uptight, prissy… parts of the human anatomy with a god complex and – Oh _wow_ , now Darcy is calling him a traitor and something about spilt milk? And ducks? Oh no, I think he meant fuck – who did he fuck?" Emma blinks slowly in confusion, brow furrowed while she tries to decipher what they're talking about. "Lip reading is bloody difficult if they keep moving like that and – Oh, nice. There's some serious Mummy bashing going on now."

Lizzie groans and buries her head in her arms. They're sitting in a booth on the upper floor with direct view of the bar down below where apparently the question over who gets to pay for freakishly overpriced, overly sweetened alcohol is now escalating into a full on bar fight.

"You think if they just keep invading each other's space like that, that one day they'll just snap and snog right there?"

Emma jerks up and around to face her. "Snog? You mean full on lip-locked, tongue-down each other's throats, teeth-clacking kind of snogging?"

"Is there a different kind?"

"No, but why would they…" The dark-haired girl's eyes widen dramatically for a moment before her mouth forms a soft 'Oh'. "Well," she says, gulping down her drink. "Now the shower thing actually makes sense."

" _The shower thing_?"

"Yeah, you know, the bumping into each other half-naked in the hallway thing after one gets out of the shower?" Emma is full on blushing now.

" _That's a thing_?"

"What's a thing?" A new voice pierces the steady beat of music and when Lizzie looks up, she sees JJ Knightley sliding into the booth next to Emma who flings herself around the other girl's neck, almost knocking the both of them over in her haste to greet her best friend.

"Emma watching half-naked boys do awkward flirting", Lizzie quips and the newcomer throws back her sleek, blonde hair and lets out an amused laugh.

"You mean the human disaster that looks like they're re-enacting Hunger Games down there?"

"Aren't they a cute couple?" Lizzie gushes, eyes sparkling in amusement.

"Completely adorable," Knightley replies, one hand patting Emma's wild shock of black curls while the other girl is using her shoulder as a make-shift pillow. Lizzie curls her lips in a sympathetic smile – being in love with a straight girl is awful at best – being in love with your straight best friend who's also wearing a mermaid costume and has absolutely no concept of personal boundaries must a be delicious sort of personal hell.

"Do you know how exhausting living with them is?" Lizzie whines. "I actually tried the lock-them-in-the-closet approach last week because I was sick of tiptoeing around them and it ended with a broken door and the local firefighter department in our flat."

"Sounds like wonderful Saturday night entertainment," Knightley replies, nudging Lizzie with one free arm. "Oh cheer up, sunshine. It can't be that bad now, can it?"

In that moment the loud shattering of glass interrupts whatever Lizzie wanted to say in reply and they all wince when Darcy sends Wickham flying backwards into the glass shards – remnants of the drinks they were fighting over – but before he topples over, the magical boy grabs Darcy's collar and drags him down with him.

It- It's not pretty.

"Huh," is all Knightley manages to say, eyebrows reaching her hairline while they all watch the two boys and their wrestling match in between a group of cheerful spectators.

"Maybe they're like frogs," Emma suddenly mutters a bit sleepily.

"Darling, what are you-"

"Frogs! Like, for dinner. If you want to cook a frog, you have to boil the water very slowly otherwise it will just jump straight out-"

"Like they jumped out of that closet?" Lizzie quips.

"Yes, well in this case we just to have to boil them slowly enough that they don't realise they're _in_ a closet before it's too late." Emma juts out her chin, looking pensive and sullen at the same time.

"I think the problem is that they _don't know_ they're _in the closet_ , don't you think it might be a little traumatic to-"

Emma shushes Knightley with one finger pressed against the other girl's lips who upon contact freezes before blushing profusely. "Will you stop being a killjoy and help us play cupid?", Emma pleads, pouts and gazes at Knightley pleadingly until the other girl just sighs in defeat.

" _Fine_."

"Oh this is going to be awesome! I just know it! Operation Frog Boiling is on the way!"

"This is a _terrible_ idea."

"Oh no," Lizzie says, a smirk spreading on her lips and she leans in to discuss conspiracies. "This is absolutely _brilliant_."

* * *

 **A/N: I hope you enjoyed this - let me know in the comments. The next part will be up in a few days and we'll take a bit of a Shakespearean turn. Enjoy whatever's left from your holidays and see you on the other side!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: So like I promised, this is the second part of three - this starts where the first one ended - with the frog boiling. And this is where we go full on Shakespeare. So have fun?**

* * *

 **Magical: Part 2  
**

So they start strategizing. Or rather, Emma and Lizzie do the strategizing while Knightley just huffs and eye rolls in the background, claiming she's there to prevent some kind of natural disaster or another nuclear bomb, but Lizzie thinks those are just excuses so that she can sit there and watch Emma scheme and plot with an evil glint in her right eye.

Honestly, all this pining is starting to make her nauseous.

But they quickly come to the conclusion that the only possible way to get them both in the same room is when Lizzie plays buffer. Oh joy.

"So your big, brilliant plan is to invite them both to that Christmas Fair thing and what – hope they don't murder each other in between mulled wine and candy? Like Christmas never turned anyone homicidal?"

"Pretty much?" Lizzie grins at her sheepishly and Knightley bites back a groan.

"I fucking _knew_ this was a terrible idea."

* * *

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

Darcy is the first to speak and Lizzie really wants to come up with some retort about his lack of creativity and Einstein's definition of madness but antagonizing one of two potential explosives does not seem like a good start to the evening. She casts a pleading look at Emma and Knightley who are standing three stands over, mulled wine in their hands, but Emma just waves and grins encouragingly.

"For once he actually speaks my mind. Princess, do you have a death wish?" Wickham drawls his response complete with a lazy smirk and an eye roll, lighting his cigarette as if he doesn't have a care in the world. The tension in his shoulders speaks volumes, though.

"Possibly?" She's less and less sure about this plan and watching the way they glare at each other over her head makes her wonder if they'd notice her getting crushed in the likely event of a fist fight.

Well, probably not.

"Perhaps you should better invest in a good calendar," Darcy sniffs, picking at the cuffs of his dress shirt that peek out from under the light, heather grey coat he's wearing.

"What, Darcy? Do you need special attention? Too good for mingling with the peasants, I take it?"

If possible, Darcy's gaze darkens even more and his nose goes up even higher. "If the company includes you? Definitely. I have better things to do than wade through whatever drug-induced hell hole you've fallen into next, I-"

"- can't tell the difference between coke and flour, but hey, I'm judging anyway. It's just so much _fun_!" Wickham blows the smoke right in his face, smirking.

"At least I-"

" _Enough_!"

They're getting on her last nerve and she just watched them take a large, red scissor to that last remaining one and saw it flying out of the proverbial window and –

Enough is enough.

She pushes between them, shoving both of them backwards with one hand against each of their chests and her fury is practically sparking.

"I am _so_ annoyed with the both of you right now!" she spits out. "This grudge-holding kiddy fight you're both getting your kicks out of has been all well and fun, but it stops _right the fuck now_! I'm sick of my flat being a bloody warzone – Collins has been hiding out in his room for weeks because you scare the crap out of him, Jane spends all her time at her boyfriend's flat and if Emma wasn't such a shiny bundle of optimism she'd be running for the hills, too!"

She glares at the both of them. Darcy looks a bit consternated while Wickham's expression flickers between amusement and annoyance.

"It's almost Christmas for fuck's sake! And I know it's about fifteen degrees outside and no one feels the Christmas spirit or whatever, but there is a Fair going on and they're blasting fake snow and I need someone to shield me from the sodding soap flakes, alright?"

With these words she grabs both their arms and tucks them close to her, before she marches down the path with the Christmas stands to both sides, dragging the two boys with her.

"May we object to this kidnapping?" The magical boy asks innocently after a while, lighting yet another cigarette.

"No and if you keep blowing smoke in my face, I'll give you something to object to."

"You're being violent today," Darcy observes, batting away the soap flakes that keep getting in their way with an irritated glare that almost makes Lizzie giggle if not for the fact that she's all kinds of righteously angry right now.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" she grumbles, ignoring Emma's and Knightley's bright "Hellos!" and pushing right past them.

"You don't need to save me, Darcy," Wickham smirks from Lizzie's other side. "I'm sure I'll survive without your selfless bouts of heroism."

"I wouldn't be," Darcy scoffs and Lizzie shakes the both of them in her frustration.

"Stop it," she growls. "They're switching the Christmas lights on. It's festive. So just… _be festive_!"

"Well, aren't you a feisty one!" That's Wickham again and Lizzie is pretty sure she could murder him with that candy cane over there. Perhaps shove it down his throat and hope he chokes on it? Always an option.

"She _is_ very demanding."

"Downright bossy even."

"One might call her a tyrant."

They're both smirking now and the expression matches – crooked and clever and just the slightest bit dangerous and Lizzie realizes that these two did actually grow up together, that they were _best friends_ and in this moment it's almost –

"Wait." She stops dead in her tracks, gazing up at both of them out of narrowed eyes with barely concealed suspicion. "Are you two _bonding_ over ganging up on me?!"

* * *

Apparently they are.

To Lizzie's eternal annoyance the only topic the both of them seem to be able to discuss without ripping each other's throats out in the process seems to be her.

Or to be precise: Mocking her.

It starts in the morning with Darcy bringing her coffee to her study dates with the magical boy in the library and then staying for a good half hour, bickering with Wickham over her love for all things sugar and the little twitch her right eyebrow does whenever she drinks said coffee. And from there on it's just a never ending dialogue about the ridiculous way her hair curls on her left side, how her thumb bends in a weird ninety-degree angle, the way she gets enraged when Darcy admits to not having watched Harry Potter, how cookies are definitely not fruits and does she want to contract scurvy – _here, eat an apple before you topple over from lack of vitamins, because I'm not cleaning that floor_ and _what is that fabric you're wearing, it smells like you bought it at the chemist, is there even any actual wool in there_?

It's just –

She pleads with the sky, with Emma and Knightley and whatever deity currently listening in to her plight and begs them for forgiveness for unleashing this monster of a duo on this earth, because surely she won't get any bonus points in heaven and her mother is going to kill her if she ends up in hell.

Not that she's not already there.

"Please, _please_ there has to be something we can do!" She has barricaded herself in Emma's room for a brief reprieve, but the other girl doesn't even look up from her binder where she's busy devising some other devilish plan involving her friend Harriet and Collins' study buddy Elton, because why not serve disaster with just a side dish of crazy?

It's not like anyone refused chips ever.

"Darcy's threatening to take me shopping, because apparently my wardrobe is some kind of offense to human kind or something equally ridiculous."

"Well, he's not wrong."

" _What the actual_ – I will have you know I have excellent taste!" Lizzie exclaims offended, crossing her arms over her chest with a huff.

"You've been literally wearing the same Rise Against T-Shirt _for days_. I'd be concerned, too."

"It's comfy! Anyway, I think the reason you're refusing to help me is that you have absolutely no idea what to do." She squints up at her, trying to gauge if her attempt at persuasion wasn't like a football to the head at best and the other girl is glaring right back at her.

"I will have you know," Emma huffs, "that I talked to Gina Darcy yesterday and she-"

"Gina _Darcy_?" Lizzie is flabbergasted. "Did you just say-"

"That the reason your two loverboys are constantly at each other's throats is because of sweet, innocent Georgina Darcy?" Emma grins, her tongue peeking out between her front teeth. "Only that in a fifteen-minute conversation she made "Nymphomaniac" actually look tame. Nice girl by the way. Lovely manners. Does photography and French literature at Oxford."

"Why don't you give her number to Knightley then," Lizzie suggests innocently, her eyes narrowed. "She loves French girls, doesn't she?"

Emma's nostrils flare and Lizzie suppresses a giggle. "Anyway," she says, her voice controlled. "Do you know your Shakespeare?"

"What are you saying?"

"How good _exactly_ are you at acting?"

* * *

Funny thing about flats in the cheapest student accommodation possible? The walls are incredibly thin. They found out about this nice little fact when Jane's boyfriend Charlie spent the night once and it's a night none of them want to relieve – _ever_.

So while Knightley is telling Darcy at their swim team's meet up all about this _friend_ of hers who's been in love with his best friend since like, _forever_ and did some really stupid thing last summer because he's so _hopelessly in love_ and that that's destroyed this friendship and now they're living together and wow _, can you believe that?_ – only to casually mention Wickham's name once Darcy's been nodding in understanding, Emma and Lizzie have a different plan.

Basically, they're in the kitchen and they know that Wickham in the room next to it likes to keep his window open when he smokes in his room because of the smoke detectors and so they not only talk _super_ loudly and have the door half ajar they also open the kitchen window that's closest to his while they embark on a brilliant story about how Darcy told Lizzie how much he's liked the magical boy _for years_ and how hurt he'd been when he found that he'd slept with Gina and how distracting and awful living with him now is when you're still half in love with the bastard.

They high-five afterwards and close the window before their mad giggles can escape into the night air.

The result is… fascinating to watch.

First of all, Darcy arrives much later than usual at the flat, looking deeply troubled and just mumbling a distracted greeting in Lizzie's general direction when suddenly Wickham walks into the kitchen as if pulled in by magnets and in their distraction they only barely avoid bumping into each other. They both apologize profusely – an apology so awkward that it ends with Wickham weirdly complimenting Darcy's hair and the other boy giving him hair care tips of all things. Emma and Lizzie, meanwhile, are sitting at the kitchen table, barely containing their laughter behind their hands while they watch the conversation drift into questions about choices in detergent and fabric softener before both boys basically run out of the kitchen, faces beet red and hide in their respective rooms.

This occurs the next few days like a rinse and repeat at the hairstylist's – bumping, blushing, babbling. Which leads to the second result: The fighting stops.

It's a bit like the first few weeks where they aggressively ignored each other, only this time the tension is of a different kind and Lizzie – Lizzie just misses all the free coffee.

But then, suddenly, as if someone flipped a switch they're both back to acting like normal. A less violent normal, sure - but still, _normal_. No blushing, no stammering just amused politeness and freely opened doors and Emma and Lizzie are flabbergasted to say the least.

It just doesn't make sense. They try stalking them, trying to find out if they're shagging or snogging or _something_ , but they both disappear into their respective rooms at night like good boys after a whole day of attending classes (in Darcy's case) or sleeping in (Wickham) and try as they might the girls cannot find any proof for anything nefarious going on which is suspicious in itself.

But then midterms happen and the great Harriet/Elton drama keeps Emma occupied especially with the sudden appearance of Frank Churchill to add to the mix that has Knightley rolling her eyes and glaring so much that Lizzie wonders how her eyes don't get stuck like that.

She tells her to tone it down and disappears into the library in search for anything resembling normality and a functioning brain.

Fuck, she really misses the coffee.

* * *

"So… uhm… _Hello_?"

A disgruntled, overtired Lizzie who's in serious need of caffeine looks up from her Human Anatomy worksheet with something like a growl on the tip of her tongue which she almost chokes on when she sees William Darcy standing there in his Burberry coat, awkwardly shuffling his feet.

"Is that a question?" she bites out. She's been at this since eight o'clock this morning with only five hours of sleep before that because she's been procrastinating and midterms are coming up and she's going to hell anyway. Darcy pulls himself together almost immediately, starch manners and biting retorts all back in place.

"No," he snaps, holding out a Styrofoam cup with something that distinctly smells like ambrosia and it's a miracle that she manages to actually take it without causing an embarrassing mess. "I just wanted to make sure you were actually alive before I got started on any reanimation techniques."

"Oh, fight me."

"I'll pass, I'm afraid. Wouldn't want to catch any rabies."

She glares at him, but the effect gets lost with the ink stains on her nose and in the corner of her mouth and his lips twitch slightly when she blows an errant curl out of her sight with an angry huff. It gets stuck to her eyebrow.

"How are you even alive right now?" he wonders, leaning forward and pushing the strand out of her face, clipping it back with the bobby pin sticking out of her bun somewhere.

"It's called breathing, darling," she snaps back, a bit flustered by the hand still lingering on her cheek. "You should try it some time."

"But then I wouldn't hold the record for longest dive at the swim club. Try to keep up, mental case."

"Says the one colour-coding his dress shirts," she retorts. "To fit with his _dress shoes_."

"You're never going to let me live that one down, are you?" The smile he sends her can almost be called fond with the way his eyes crinkle and it makes her just that bit giddy inside where the caffeine can't reach.

"Where'd be the fun in that?" She pitches her voice to a shrill sound. " _Are you drinking tube cleaner?_ Good god, you're such an arsehole, Darcy."

"You only just realized that?"

"Nah, I knew it from the start. But don't worry, Jimmy, you can't even boil water, so we're going to keep you."

" _Keep me_?" He looks equal parts amused and annoyed at that idea. "What, in a cage?"

"With a good leash and a muzzle," she agrees, sipping her coffee. "You _bite_ , Darcy. We can't endanger the public like that."

"Says the public safety hazard." Darcy shakes his head in exasperation. "And I don't just bite anyone, you silly girl."

"Oh, should I feel extra special now?" Lizzie simpers. "Is there a club or something?"

"Well, I think you and George are both in a league of your own, so have fun with that." He's sitting half perched on the desk she's working on now, six foot two of entitled privilege and posture resulting from years of etiquette class and riding lessons, clad in understated designer wear with one crisp linen shirt costing more than she pays in tuition each month and it's –

It's a bit overwhelming and Lizzie's never one for being intimidated, so she straightens her posture, pushing back the sleeves of her oversized jumper and is fully prepared to glare right back at William Darcy when –

Yes, when suddenly the boy in question leans down, his face only inches from hers. "Do you want me to bite you?" he asks, cool blue eyes focusing on her.

"I do _not_ have a vampire fetish," she protests, her mouth suddenly going dry and she grips the edges of the table for purchase.

Darcy smirks. "Good," he whispers and then he kisses her.

It is –

For the first five seconds Lizzie is so in shock that she barely registers his lips moving against her own and then, like a wave rolling back into the ocean, sensation returns with full power and she gasps, lips opening and then his tongue is in her mouth and she's kissing him back, because this is like she's been slowly set on fire and she's never thought about him like this before, but _Jesus Christ_ , this is awesome and she never –

Oh fuck.

She pushes him back.

"What _on earth_ do you think you're _doing_?" She manages to get out, two fingers pressed against her tingling lips and it feels like someone turned the world upside down and sideways.

"I thought that was fairly obvious." Darcy's reply is brisk, but she hears the slight breathlessness, sees the cherry-stained redness to his lips and he looks – flustered.

Lizzie stumbles backwards. "Oh gods," she mutters, seeing her hands shake from the periphery and she shoots him one last, wild glance and then she bolts.

She's not proud of it. Not by far. Lizzie Bennet doesn't do running. Even when she was six years old and Lydia was convinced there was a monster under her bed, her first response wasn't hiding under blankets and crying for their mother, but letting out a Tarzan-like scream of attack and kicking the shit out of what turned out to be a stray stuffed animal.

But now she's running – fuck, it feels like a race and she only stops when she runs through the flat, into the kitchen and then headfirst into the magical boy.

"Well, _Hello_ to you, too," Wickham drawls, steadying her by gripping her arms and keeping her upright while she tries to regain her breath. He's shirtless and she blames Darcy and the way he messed with her brain for not being able to stop ogling him.

"What has you in such a state today, Princess?" His dirty blond curls are messy and there are pillow marks on his cheek and fuck, how is that even possible? It's five in the afternoon.

"Darcy," she yelps, still breathless.

"Oh I can emphasize." Wickham smirks lazily. "He does have that effect on me, too, from time to time. Makes you want to tear your hair out by the roots."

"What the-" She grabs a cup from the sink and pours tab water in it before gulping it down. "So you two are kissing now?"

" _Kiss_ \- Why the hell should we be-" His eyes widen for a second and she almost thinks she sees a faint blush on his face, but then there's the glint in her eyes that has all her alarm signals ring around for an ambulance.

" _You two_ are kissing," he almost purrs, leaning in and effectively trapping her against the counter. There's a hint of teeth behind the smirk and Lizzie, heart beating wildly, shuts down all emotional responses and stares back coolly.

"What is it to you?" she asks, letting a small smile tug at the right corner of her mouth and his eyes flicker to it like a moth to a flame.

"Curiosity? Amazement that some part of him isn't deep frosted yet?"

She leans in, smells smoke and something so distinctly him that she feels like falling. She breathes in. " _Liar_ ," Lizzie whispers, close enough to the shell of his ear that the tip of her tongue almost, _almost_ touches skin when she speaks and her nose brushes messy curls when she presses both hands against his chest.

He freezes.

"Oh _back off_!" she snarls, but there is no venom in her voice and no violence in her arms when she pushes him off her with an eye roll and half a smile. "Go find someone else to play your cave men game. I'm distinctly out of bear skin today."

"Oh but I do so love playing with you, love." He smirks and takes a step back when she just quirks an unimpressed eyebrow.

"The word you're looking for is _toying_ , darling," Lizzie replies, now shrugging of her backpack and unbuttoning her coat. "You've never played well with others."

"Did Darcy tell you that? Because I have to warn you, the spoilsport never did understand the concept of game."

"Well, he has more game than you ever did," Lizzie shoots back, smirking provocatively and Wickham's eyebrow almost disappears under his hairline.

"Oh, does he now?" Before she can react he's tugged her towards him as if preparing to waltz, but then his right hand cups her face, fingers splayed over cheek and neck and the other is pushing under her jumper, creeping across the soft skin of her hips and lower back in the same breath that he captures her lips.

It's a different sort of kiss.

Where Darcy's kiss was soft and languid, something clean and fresh, yet burning – like mint paste on a still fresh cut, Wickham kisses with the terribly wild precision of a madman, lighting fires wherever his hands go. Pyromaniac, she thinks. He who loves the fire.

In a word, Wickham kisses _dirty_. It's all fingers digging into hips and up spines, running through hair and down jaw lines with lips dragging down and just that tease of grazing teeth that sends jolts down her spine and he –

He tastes like pineapple.

Oh fuck, she thinks. Here we go again.

"Having fun?" a voice suddenly sounds from the doorway of the kitchen and they both spin around only to face a calm looking William Darcy, arms crossed over his chest and an inscrutable expression on his face.

"Oh yes, we did. Lovely. Thank you for your concern, now move on," Wickham informs him flatly, one hand still cupping Lizzie's face, but Darcy just rolls his eyes and pushes himself up from the wall he's been leaning against.

"She's a fast one I have to admit." He points at Lizzie. "But you," he rounds on the magical boy, something flickering in his gaze. "You don't waste any time now, do you?"

"Was I supposed to?" Wickham drawls. "My bad."

"Oh you're not sorry at all, arsehole."

"Bastard."

" _Are you kidding me_?" Lizzie has finally enough and she steps back out of Wickham's reach, glaring murderously when he tries to reach for her. "Are you two seriously back to insulting each other? I thought that once you snogged that we'd be done with that crap!"

A beat. She eyes the two boys in front of her, none of them quite meeting her gaze. "You _did_ kiss, right? _Right_?"

When none of them answer, she throws her head back and groans. "Oh my god, you two are so useless." She closes her eyes, takes a breath or two. "William Darcy, that wild thing over there has probably been in love with you for the better part of three years and he only slept with your sister because he thought she was the closest to the real thing as he was ever likely to get."

"Well, Gina is a nice girl," Wickham chimes in.

"Not helping, darling." Lizzie rolls her eyes. "Because see, the stiff shirt here probably loved you for about just as long if not longer, because he's strange like that."

"Don't I know it."

"And Gina only came onto you, dear, because she thought that one of you two pig-headed idiots would snap either out of guilt or jealousy and that something would come out of it. She sends her regards by the way and wants me to tell you that if you don't get your act together ASAP, she's coming down for a visit."

"You talked to my sister?" Out of everything that's apparently the part Darcy decides to focus on. Typical sheer bloody mindedness.

"Actually, Emma did."

" _Emma_?" Now they're both echoing her like a pair of parrots with a memory disorder.

"Your flatmate Emma? Tiny, devilish Emma with the hot pink Disney princess folder and the matchmaking tendencies? That Emma?" She leans back against the counter. "Honestly, I thought you'd discovered our little scheme way earlier."

"That was _you_?"

"We thought it would do the trick." Lizzie shrugs. "Oh god, let me guess. Once you two were able to do more than stutter past the language capacities of a toddler you _what_ – both decided to come snog me? Because I've heard some freaky stuff about Freud and that, my friends, sounds like classic _displacement_ to me."

They both just look at her and Lizzie sighs.

"Will you do me a favour? Just snog, okay? It'll be fine."

They still don't move.

"Honestly, do you want me to stay here and hold both your hands? This is not the first day of preschool, okay?"

She turns around and leaves the room, feeling oddly like crying.

* * *

"Emma, where in this giant clusterfuck of a spider web is the sodding _spider_?" Lizzie bursts into her flatmate's room, up in arms about something she's not sure she should be upset about, because honestly, she did get what she set out to get, didn't she?

They're snogging now.

And it shouldn't hurt the way it does - quietly, deeply, like someone shoved a couple razors down her throat and is now watching them do their bloody dance, but it does and it's –

Unsettling.

"Like, I keep tripping over pitfalls that have no business being where they are and I'm not an insect, so seriously what's the point in kissing me, Shakespeare? Is this a fun hobby for rich boys? Like sticking butterflies on pins and keeping them in dusty libraries, because I do feel like someone pricked me and I do not like feeling _prick_ –"

She stops dead in her tracks when upon hearing the noise, Emma lifts her head from where she's buried it in one of her million and one yellow and pink pillows and looks at her with a tear-streaked face and a look of abject misery in her eyes.

For a second Lizzie doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"What _happened_?" she more or less blurts out – it's not like she ever knew what tact is or how to apply it, but when Emma tears up again, her heart shaped face contorting into something gut-wrenchingly sad, Lizzie kind of wishes she'd taken her mother up on her offer of etiquette classes, because surely there are rules for this kind of situation?

"Knightley… Knightley _hates me_ ," the girl sobs, voice hoarse from what looks like hours of crying at this point. There's even a heap of used tissues piled up next to her – the girl is nothing but stylish.

"Don't be ridiculous," Lizzie exclaims with a frown before sitting down next to Emma. "That girl literally adores the pants off of you."

"She said I was stu- _stupid_."

"I highly doubt that." Lizzie half drags, half pushes Emma until the girl's head is in her lap and she can comfortably lean against the headboard.

"She said I was selfish," Emma hiccoughs, nose buried against Lizzie's thigh. "That I was a self-centred, egoistical –"

"Did she happen to swallow a dictionary, too? Because that's a lot of synonyms."

"- only because Frank and I made fun of Professor Bates in our Intro to Political Philosophy class – the woman scrunches her nose every time she says 'Therefore' and it's hilarious, but JJ, she – she totally blew up at me right outside the lecture hall, ranting something about respect and boundaries and I just stood there and it was like – _a whole army shooting at me_ -"

"Hey there, Shakespeare-"

"And she just – I've never seen her so angry and now she's gone to Dublin to meet some friends and Harriet is convinced she's in love with her and vice versa, because apparently Elton not liking her has something to do with her being subconsciously gay or something as if that even makes _sense_ –" A new crying fit shakes the small body and Lizzie, her mind whirling with all the information on top of whatever confused mess is inhabiting her own brain – parasites possibly - doesn't know what else to do besides coo at her and tell her to breathe.

She feels like a chicken or something.

"Emma?" she asks when after a while the girl's sobs have died down to a manageable level. "Why are you so upset about Harriet liking Knightley? Shouldn't you be happy that your friends are in love?"

"They're not _in love_!" Emma's protest is instantaneous and vehement. "They can't be – that's just not… that's not possible."

"I think Harriet told you they were?"

"Well, she's wrong." Emma's chin juts forward defiantly.

"And if she's not?"

The words linger in the air for a while and Lizzie rubs her temple, feeling a headache coming up. Emma turns her head to the side, eyeing Lizzie with narrowed eyes.

"I don't think I like you right now."

Lizzie snorts. "Finally figured it out then?"

"Figured out what?" Emma looks at her with a frown on her face. "That I'll be subjected to hell on earth watching those two being all gross with each other once JJ's back?"

She forces herself to not shove the girl off the bed for her sheer pig-headedness and obstinacy, because surely she's not that oblivious on purpose?

"Emma, why would it be _hell on earth_ to watch them together? Knightley is your best friend and you like Harriet and you wanted her to get a significant other for weeks now, so-"

"Because Harriet is not right for her!" The outburst apparently shocks Emma more than Lizzie who just rolls her eyes.

"And who is?"

The silence lasts longer this time and when Lizzie looks down to gauge her friend's reaction, the girl looks like someone doused her with a bathtub full of ice-water, eyes wide, mouth open and Lizzie contemplates poking her to see if she's dead and turned into a ghost now, but she refrains.

"This is…"

"Yes."

"I am…"

"Apparently."

"And she is..."

"For years now probably."

Emma sits up, black curls a halo around her face and even her dark skin looks pale without the usual smile on her face. She presses a hand against her lips. "Why on earth didn't you tell me?"

"Because you respond so well to being told what to do?"

"That is no reason-" Lizzie raises a brow and Emma falters, bites her lips and looks like she wants to cry all over again.

"I'm so screwed," she finally whispers, letting herself drop back into the pillows and curling up next to Lizzie on the bed.

"Got it in one, sunshine!" Lizzie says with fake cheerfulness, patting Emma's head. "But unless you want to see some actual screwing, you should probably avoid the kitchen for the next few hours."

"So you finally got them to snog?"

"The most useless pair of idiots I've ever seen," Lizzie nods. "But I think me yelling at them did the trick."

"Are you alright?" Emma asks, quiet and soft, the one brown eye not obscured by pillows or stuffed animals, focused on the other girl and Lizzie's smile falters.

"I don't know," she finally admits and it's the most honest thing she's said all day.

* * *

 **A/N: I promise a happy end?**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Happy New Year to everyone no matter your state of sobriety! This is the final part, I hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

 **Magical: Part 3  
**

This newfound insecurity lasts the next few days and while Emma is preoccupied with her identity crisis and staring with a lovelorn expression on her face at Knightley's snapchat pictures of her going out clubbing, lips painted an almost black red and arm slung around some gorgeous girl or another, Lizzie has turned into an Edward-Cullen meets Spiderman double to keep up the avoidance tactics.

It's a good thing their flat is situated on the ground floor – what with her using windows as doors and climbing in and out of them at all hours of the day and night. Lizzie still manages to turn her hands and shins into a warzone-like maze of small cuts and bruises, but she hasn't yet broken anything and possesses a new shiny record of five days without magic.

Well, she did until she literally tumbles into her room through the window, heavy bag hitting her on her head after she's already on the floor and Lizzie groans into the dusty carpet like some dying thing on the roadside. She contemplates just staying there, her bones seem to be intact, the head trauma not too severe and the bed is far too far away to be even remotely considered a possibility right now until a familiar head of carefully groomed dark hair looms over her, a curious look on his face and she re-evaluates that head trauma assessment, because she definitely has to be hallucinating.

Why else would William Darcy be in her room?

"Oh crap," she mutters. "I'm so done for."

"She's babbling." Darcy – _the hallucination_ states. "So I guess she's alive?"

"You could try poking her," someone else suggests and that – _No,_ that's absolutely not possible.

"We'll tackling might be out of the question, _genius_ ," the first hallucination retorts, clearly annoyed. "Also, I fear she might try to bite anything that goes near her face."

"Well, I suggest you keep your trousers on then, sundance." The second hallucination – somewhere on the bed, maybe? – sounds amused and she really has to give herself some credit for how detailed she's made these illusions.

"Might be difficult for you, _sweetheart_."

Lizzie grumbling and trying to borrow herself deeper into the carpeted floor ends that discussion for now and she suddenly feels a pair of hands around her arms, but she snarls something unintelligible and tries to roll under the desk.

"No, Mum," she mumbles. "I don't wanna go to bed. I'm a big girl."

"You're an annoying slip of a termagant and except for that cloud of hair, there's nothing big about you." The hands start tugging at her again and she bats them away, because she's so tired from studying all day and she doesn't want to move she just wants to –

"No making fun of my hair," she blurts out, cracking one eye open before she immediately closes it upon the sight of not only Darcy's amused face, but also the magical boy's smirk from where he's lounging on her bed like some Roman emperor. She really needs to get her similes checked.

Hallucination Number One sighs. "I promise," it says. "I won't make fun of your hair, no matter how ridiculous it looks. So will you come out now?"

" _No_."

It sighs again. "I feel like we adopted a three-year old. Or a rather sullen cat. Did we talk about this before?"

"We both signed the contract, darling," the other hallucination singsongs, sounding highly amused. "Perhaps she'll come out when you offer her a ball of yarn or something."

"I will _bite_ you."

"No biting without consent, love. We talked about this." The Darcy-hallucination is stroking the wild curls out of her face, but Lizzie just growls at him. "And no growling. Were you raised in a barn or something?"

"You're really awful at sweet-talking, Darcy," the hallucination on the bed interrupts.

"And you're useless."

"You want to bet on that?"

They keep bickering like that and Lizzie groans, pulling the hood of her sweatshirt over her head. "Even when I'm hallucinating you idiots, you're arguing. Just… just be _quiet_ , okay?" She mumbles the last part softly, almost pleadingly.

"Darling?" The first hallucination crouches down next to her. "What makes you think you're just imagining us?"

"'Cause I'm stupid", Lizzie mumbles into the carpeted floor which just might be her new bestest friend of them all. "And you're snogging and…"

"And what, little lunatic?"

"You can't just _kiss me_!", Lizzie bursts out, sitting up and haphazardly throwing back her hood, but it gets caught in her hair in an absolutely ridiculous looking way as she continues. "You can't just do that to people, you know? It's confusing and staggering and - and I don't know – requires a fucking _warning_ or something and you can't just do that and then go and snog each other, because this is giving me whiplash and fuck – where is the sodding floor when I need it?" She's climbed to her feet and is now swaying disoriented, confusedly searching for the newest acquisition to her friend list, but coming up short.

"Where's the floor?" she whines, bottom lip sticking out in a pout and limbs flailing around her. "Please, I just want to go-"

Someone catches her.

"Why don't you try this shocking new invention called a bed?" the hallucination that looks and sounds and smells like Darcy suggests and guides her towards her own bed. "You can sleep off your Bella from Twilight moment and maybe tomorrow we can all talk like adults about what a silly goose you are, because I have no idea what makes you think we could do this without you yelling at us all the time."

"'m not a goose", Lizzie mumbles, eyelids already drooping while she's being guided onto the bed with the semi-fond, semi-annoyed order in Wickham's direction to "just move, bastard" to which he grumblingly complies. "Goose? Geese? Cheese? I don't like cheese."

"Sweet Jesus, you need sleep," the hallucination disguised as Wickham drawls and pulls her down on top of him. "Honestly, I'd hoped this would go down with a lot less clothing involved."

"You're impossible," Darcy drawls and pulls the blankets over the two of them before settling in on the other side – thank god, this room came with a twin bed.

"Impossibly good you mean?"

"Keep talking and I'll punch you."

"Punching, biting – why do all my significant others want to do me bodily harm?"

"Because you're a fucking nuisance and I don't know why I put up with you?"

"Oh don't tell me you don't believe in the magic?" Wickham's voice is smug, but Lizzie with her sleep-addled mind, heartbeat in sync with the two bodies surrounding her thinks she can detect just a hint of vulnerability in there and snuggles just that bit closer.

Someone turns off the light.

"I do," Darcy says softly into the darkness. "I really do."

* * *

She wakes up some time later, her mind much clearer than before only to realise that she's indeed breathing between two bodies and not hallucinating this and in the dead of the night it feels like her heart is jumping out of her body.

Wickham is laying on his side, one arm thrown around her waist, hand pushed up her shirt and resting on her back with two fingers pushed under the clasp of her bra while Darcy is sleeping in an upright sitting position to both their heads, arms crossed in front of his chest, head thrown back and mouth slightly parted. The faint light coming in through the window from the street lamps outside outlines his face and something catches in her throat.

"He's beautiful, isn't he?" Wickham's voice is rough and thick with sleep and she chances a glance at shadowed eyes and a crooked grin before her body softens.

"Yeah," she whispers, relaxing into the magical boy's touch. "He is."

Wickham presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth. "He's right, you know? We couldn't possibly do this without you."

And Lizzie smiles, curls one hand around Darcy's propped up knee while burying the other in magical boy's soft shirt and allows herself to be dragged back to sleep.

* * *

"I can't believe this is happening," Emma repeats for the forty-seventh in half as many minutes and keeps bouncing on the tips of her insanely high shoes that help her get somewhere to Lizzie's nose level – quite the achievement for someone who only passes the five feet mark on a good day. "I can't believe we're _here_."

 _Here_ is the university's annual Christmas ball in the science building's foyer that looks like someone recreated Elsa's frozen palace with way too much glitter and streamers and Lizzie fears that something sharp and icy will poke out someone's eye before the night is over.

"Keep it cool, Romeo," Lizzie quips, taking a careful sip from her champagne flute before smirking down at the girl in the silvery dress who's currently biting her nails. "Oh quit the theatrics, Woodhouse. You're acting like a child."

"Says the one _who climbed through windows_ for a week straight."

"It was necessary at the time?" Lizzie phrases it like a question. "And stop judging! You literally look like a bunch of confectioners got way too enthusiastic with the frosting – you're all glittery!"

"Glittery? Really?" The look Emma gives her is distinctly unimpressed and mildly scathing. "You're not exactly pitch black night yourself."

Lizzie looks down at her own dress – subtle lines of rhinestones woven into the soft black material that clings to her body and shrugs. "If I'd known that shopping with Darcy means visiting a personal shopper and get a shitload of clothing delivered to your house, I'd have taken him up on his offer a long time ago."

"Well, thank god for highly developed communication skills in your little ménage a trois," Emma scoffs, fiddling with her sequined headband that matches the metallic blue sequins used in the embroidery on her 1920s style dress. "And for a rich boyfriend, I guess."

Lizzie glares at her. "Two rich boyfriends," she says primly. "Apparently Wickham has been a stubborn idiot and refused his inheritance until he and Darcy finally got their shit together."

"Was there yelling involved?"

Lizzie grins. "Possibly?"

"There was definitely yelling involved," a new voice murmurs and Lizzie can't help the small grin lifting the corners of her mouth when Darcy presses a kiss to her temple and slips his arm around her waist, letting his hand rest on her hip. Wickham appears to her other side, freshly shaven and put into a tux and dress shirt by a stern Darcy – he's been tugging at his collar ever since they got here, complaining about its constricting nature while tracing the black tattoo lines crawling up his neck.

"She's rather violent by nature," he agrees, taking the champagne from Lizzie and gulping it down in one go. "Why the fuck did we agree to go here again? I like parties and I like alcohol, but this event is depressingly… _sober_. Also, people over there are wearing baubles as earrings. Why the fuck would they do that?"

"Because it's Christmas?" Lizzie shakes her head at him. "And you're not supposed to get drunk on Christmas unless you are Uncle Paul and have been in the closet for the better part of your adult years."

"So…" Magical boy chances a glance at Darcy. "I'm not allowed to drink?"

The other boy rolls his eyes. "You're not allowed to drink."

Lizzie sighs, satisfied, but her smug, "See? No yelling required!" gets interrupted when Emma lets out a squeak of " _She's here_!" that sounds like she's on helium and jumps halfway behind Wickham in an effort to hide herself.

Magical boy drags her out by her elbow.

"Tiny thing," he drawls. "You've been a bloody nuisance for more than a week straight because you've been pining for blonde thing over there and I like my sleep uninterrupted so please, by all that is holy – go snog her, okay?"

Emma narrows her eyes at the tattooed boy and juts her chin forward. "Now you know how I felt watching you three do awkward dancing, it was-" But before Emma can gather herself to proclaim how she knew about the whole thing and that she's awesome and why not make her president of the whole freaking world, Knightley happens.

Lizzie can't deny that she's surprised that JJ would willingly seek out the confrontation after having disappeared off the face of the planet for weeks now, but it's nothing to the sheer bewilderment on Emma's face when she catches sight of her best friend in a flowy, pale blue dress approaching her and she opens her mouth, but before she can say anything – a flurry of apologies and accusations most likely - Knightley has wrapped her arms around her and is hugging her tightly.

"I'm _so_ sorry," the blonde girl whispers and Emma's face is absolutely priceless while she awkwardly tries to return the hug. "I heard about Frank and I just wanted to say that I'm with you if you need anything and…"

" _Frank_?" Emma's voice perfectly sums up Lizzie's own confusion about what's happening right in front of her. "What about him?"

"Haven't you heard?" Knightley looks worried. "About him and Jane Fairfax? It's all over Facebook…"

"Frank and _Professor Fairfax_?"

"Oh, sweetie, I thought you knew! I'm so sorry, I know how much you liked him and when I heard about the affair I came back as soon as I could catch a ride and-"

"You came back because you thought I was upset?" Emma's tone is calm, her words carefully measured and Knightley just nods and pulls her into another hug.

"I'm sorry," Lizzie hears her whisper and she leans closer to her two boys, cheek pressed against Wickham's shoulder while Darcy threads two fingers through the magical boy's belt loops, connecting them all.

"JJ, it's fine." Emma sounds almost breathless, clearly overwhelmed. "Really, I mean I haven't talked to Frank for – I don't know – _forever,_ and he and Fairfax, I mean – _wow_ , that's a story for Scandal or maybe the Daily Mirror, I mean – can we sell it to them? Is that a thing? Anyway, what I wanted to say is…" She presses her hands against JJ's shoulders, tips curling around the bare skin displayed there and bites her lip. "What I wanted to say is… I'm _fine_." Emma laughs and Lizzie sees Knightley's eyes flickering all over the other girl's face as if trying to take her all in. "Now that you're here… I'm… so much better than fine." She chokes on something and then it's Emma's arms around JJ's neck, quite probably trying to hug her to death. "Oh my god, you're _here_!"

"Doesn't she catch on fast…," Wickham drawls, snickering.

"Easy there, sunshine." Knightley pats her shoulder, voice tinged with laughter. "I'm glad to be back, too."

"Then why did you leave?" Emma frowns and takes a step back. "I know we had a fight and everything, but it's not like you to just up and go and leave me there hanging, so…"

Knightley's smile turns sheepish. "Yeah, well," she says and Lizzie can literally see Emma's face go pale. "I kind of have to tell you something?"

"You _kind of_ have tell me something?"

"Yeah, so while I was away I met someone and I really need to tell you about it, because-"

The crack in Emma's tiny heart is even audible with the music blaring as loudly as it does and Lizzie winces.

"Oh why talk?" Emma exclaims brightly, voice two notches too high. "We're at a party and we should celebrate!"

"Emma-"

"I mean, who needs talking anyway. Completely overrated in my opinion. And oh _look_ , there are ice fairies!"

"Now she's gone completely round the bend," Darcy mutters and when Wickham snickers again, Lizzie angrily nudges the boy with one elbow and shoots him a glare. "What is it with you and calling people insane? Haven't you learned your lesson by now?"

"What lesson?" Darcy whispers in her ear. "You're still my favourite lunatic."

"Charming," Lizzie mutters, eyes focused on the drama enfolding right in front of them.

"Emma, would you please just _listen_ -"

"And we should dance! Don't you like to dance?" The desperation is shining through Emma's words and she's gone back to the nail biting.

"- please _listen to me_ , okay? This is important and I-", Knightley pleads, but the other girl won't even look her in the eye.

"I like to dance!"

" _Emma_!"

The outcry shakes the girl out of her mania and she looks almost shell shocked for a second before the tears start pooling in her eyes. "What?", she whispers, looking for all the world like a scolded school girl.

"Can you just listen for one bloody second?"

"Well, maybe _I just_ _don't want to_!"

Knightley jerks back as if slapped, staring at Emma wide-eyed who in turn presses her hands in front of her mouth in horror.

"Oh, okay…," the blonde girl whispers, sounding defeated. "That's… of course that's fine… I'll just… I'll just go then, okay?"

"Emma…," Lizzie says quietly in warning and the small girl nods jerkily.

"No please," she reaches out with both hands to grab Knightley and manages to get hold of one elbow and possibly a shoulder. "I'm so sorry… We're friends - of course I'll listen to what you have to say. Just please, please, JJ…"

The other girl stops moving and Lizzie sees her open and close her hands a few times. They're trembling. "Friends," she finally says and there's all the heartbreak in the world summed up in just one word. " _Right_."

"You… you're my _best friend_ , JJ. And when you've fallen in love with someone that's great and I'll be happy for you and we'll always be best friends and-"

Knightley turns around. "Emma," she says. "Emma, I don't think I can be just your friend anymore."

" _What_?" She can hear Emma's voice breaking.

"We can't be friends, Emma. It's not working. You are… you are just-"

"No! Please, if this is about Professor Bates, then I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be callous and-" Emma is full on crying now and Knightley just stands there watching with horror written all over her face while she tries to calm down the sobbing girl and there's even a small circle of people gathered around them after having tasted blood. Fucking piranhas.

"They're worse than us," Wickham grumbles, shaking his head at all the drama.

Darcy snorts. "No one's worse than us."

"Emma, you misunderstood me." The sobbing has calmed down to a manageable level and it sounds like the tiny girl is breathing again. "You're perfect and wonderful and so… so _lovely_ and that's kind of the problem."

"How's me being perfect a problem?" comes the sullen reply, while Emma carefully tries to wipe the tears away without ruining her make-up.

Knightley's laugh sounds choked. "Because it's literally hurting me to look at you and to know that we'll never, that you'll never… and that's… that's _fine_. You don't like girls like that and I'm just being an idiot, but I realised that I couldn't keep doing this, couldn't keep being around you while I'm, I'm quite hopelessly in love with you."

Emma's eyes have grown wider with each passing word and her mouth is slightly parted to form an 'O' of absolutely delighted wonder and while Knightley's throat is bobbing, fingers trembling, that amazement turns to determination and before the other girl knows what's happening, Emma has cupped her face and to the applause of the people around them, tugged her down into a kiss.

"Fucking _finally_ ," Lizzie breathes out while Darcy rolls his eyes and hands Wickham a ten-pound note.

"Bastard," he mutters.

At the first contact Knightley had been frozen with shock, but then she melts, relief visibly seeping into her veins and kisses Emma back rather enthusiastically.

"You really are an idiot," the tiny girl whispers when they break apart and Knightley looks just so stupidly overwhelmed that she doesn't do more than laugh with tears in her eyes. The two of them stare at each other for quite a while until a look of indignation crosses Emma's face and she gives Knightley a light shove.

"If you're so in love with me," she starts, ignoring Knightley's rolled eyes and her "Oh please". "Then who the fuck did you ' _meet'_ in London?!"

The blonde girl looks sheepish again. "A friend?"

"Is that a _question_?"

"Oh, don't worry, puppet," a new voice chimes in and through the throng of people gathered to watch the spectacle, a girl emerges, all sultry dark eyeliner and bright red lips, blond hair pinned up with effortless elegance and both Darcy's and Wickham's mouths fall open. "She only has eyes for you."

" _Gina_?"

The girl looks surprised. "What? I told you I'd come down for a visit if you didn't get your shit together any time soon." She eyes the three in front of her – Lizzie between the two boys – with subtle amusement. "I just didn't expect it to be quite in _this_ constellation."

"I didn't either," Knightley chimes in, hands tangled together with Emma's who's half scowling and half smiling – it makes her look like she's having a seizure. "Is this sort of a natural thing or did somebody put you on steroids?"

"And are you _naturally_ just that charming or are you actively trying to be insulting?" Wickham drawls, exposing his neck to show his tattoos.

"It's like a car crash," Knightley shrugs. "In a cute and kind of adorable way, but still, a car crash. You just can't. Look. _Away_."

"Didn't exactly peck voyeurism to be your kink, but _hey_ -"

"I'd say it's more like a horror movie," Emma contemplates with her head tilted to the side, not even reacting to Lizzie's barb. "It kinda makes sense, but like in a _really_ gory way."

"Did anyone forget the life-sized drama that played out here just eight hot seconds ago? No? Because, really-"

"Do we _need_ to stage an intervention? I'm pretty sure Stockholm Syndrome is involved somehow."

"This is like three train wrecks meshed into one, JJ. I mean, Good Lord, how are they even _functioning_?" Emma is smirking widely and Lizzie just grits her teeth, glaring.

"We are right. Fucking. _Here_."

"I think they're borrowing from each other; you know? Like, two are using the same engine, the other offers some wheels while the next one is responsible for breakfast – I don't know, don't look at me like that, Emma. I have no idea what I'm talking about."

"It's called co-dependency," Gina interjects with an amused drawl that's somehow the perfect mix between Wickham and Darcy and it's really fucking scary to watch. "Honestly, children, where's the alcohol in this establishment?"

Emma shoots Gina a glare, apparently still riled up about that whole potential lover thing. "Yes," she says. "Co-dependency. It's not _healthy_."

"Uhm, _excuse me_?"

"Says the right kind of monkey," Darcy mutters, watching the proceedings with stoicism bordering on faint amusement.

"We're not _co-dependent_ ," Lizzie reiterates with yet another glare but Emma just bursts out laughing.

"You've been sleeping in the same bed for over a _week_ now."

"It's comfy?" Lizzie frowns at the girls' mad giggling. "Besides, Darcy's bed is a double. Of course we're sleeping there."

"Yes, because he had it _delivered,_ the poncy wanker."

"Nothing wrong with having standards," Darcy says dryly, resulting in cough from Gina who rolls her eyes and inspects her perfectly manicured nails.

"Well, I do hope you showed better standards in the choice of your partners than you did when choosing a university. This affair has been messy enough so far and blood stains are just _so_ difficult to get out of silk, you wouldn't _believe_ it."

"Gina…," Darcy warns her quietly, but the girl just smiles lazily and makes her way through the crowd to some certain doom or other.

"Good lord," Wickham groans, burying his face in Lizzie's hair when the people around them start forming a polonaise and she just starts giggling at the similar horror on Darcy's face when Emma drags a reluctant Knightley to join the crazy people as well. "Merry fucking Christmas."

"Oh," Lizzie says, still giggling. "I can just feel the magic."

Darcy sniggers at Wickham's glare. "Me too," he says. "Me too."

Freshman Year is everything it's supposed to be and yet – not.

But, as Lizzie thinks the night after the Christmas ball, the taste of champagne still prickling on her tongue and two heartbeats beneath her fingertips, she's completely fine with that.

As long as she can feel the magic.

* * *

 **A/N: Well let's hope 2017 will be a better year for all of us! Much love, Teddy**


End file.
